More Than Kin and Less Than Kind
by PixieKindOfCrazy
Summary: Sherlock can't help but feel that losing Mary was his fault. He is grieving and guilty when he reluctantly reaches out to Irene. She begins to ease the weight on his chest just before Eurus devises an entirely new plan to simultaneously get to know her brother better and possibly ruin his life. That's sisters for you. Rated M in case smut happens in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

More Than Kin and Less Than Kind

A/n: I started writing this right after I asked for adlock prompts, and I woke up with like ten. You are all wonderful fangirls and boys. And I will be working on those next, but I got an idea for this multi-chapter fic. It is a continuation of And They Had Cake, but you don't have to read it to understand this one. This takes place right after the series 4 finale. There will probably be smut in this fic at some point, I might even incorporate some of those prompts you guys gave me, but I'll try to put a warning before the chapter if there's smut in it. This will be a slightly dramatic, serious fic. Hint, Eurus can cause a lot of trouble from inside a prison. Feel free to keep shooting your ideas my way! I appreciate it.

Chapter 1

"You never told me about your sister."

It was a very typical thing for a woman to ask a man about, but to his mind, the question implied in her statement did not coalesce with his expectations of her. Whether or not it was awkward to discuss his sister while the Woman was draped across his chest, he did not know. You see, they had had cake. And then dinner in bed. And he had had quite a few drinks before she came over in order to disable his inhumanly strong memory. So he's not entirely certain if he ever even mentioned Eurus to her.

But she knew. Irene always knew and it no longer surprised him, merely stoked his curiosity.

"How did you know I had a sister?" he stared up at the patterns on his bedroom ceiling with his hand resting on her back and his mouth numb from both drink and her kiss.

She laughed, a wicked dulcet sound that seemed to caress his ears. Bizarre, "How did I know about the cake? Or Mary?"

Saying her name like that, Irene might as well have slapped Sherlock straight in the face. Even with the Scotch fueled pain relief in his veins, his heart still flinched when he thought about the late Mrs. Watson. And his broken vow.

He showed his partner a melancholy half smile, "I'm quite aware by now that you have eyes everywhere, Irene. I sometimes wonder if you're slightly clairvoyant. I just hoped you might disclose your methods to me."

He was putting on a good show, giving an effort to seem like his insides weren't twisting. He was honestly a very adept liar. But she had always been the only person able to read him as well as he read everyone else. He was hurting so much. The beautiful, brainy detective was heartbroken and heartbroken, as it turns out, was not the new sexy.

A very rare feeling flooded her chest as she examined the lines of grief on his face. The last time she felt sympathy for someone like this was for her mother when her father ran away. Sherlock brought so much out of her; he matched her.

She laid a hand on his shoulder hesitantly and looked up at his blue eyes, frozen over, "I'm sorry."

He blinked, slightly confused, "You're sorry that you won't tell me how your spies operate?"

"Oh, hush, darling," she rolled her eyes at his deflection, "I said her name and your face fell. You're still thinking about it."

 _Great,_ he groused to himself, _I can't even manage to lie properly anymore._

Something burned in him at the word 'still'. He pushed her hand off of him a little roughly and sat up in the bed, "Of course I'm still thinking about it! It wasn't really that long ago…"

It had been almost half a year, but she wasn't going to mention that. Indelicate. And she was not hurt by his rejection of her physical comfort. She understands how he operates. His brain cannot comprehend sadness well enough to fix it within himself, so he combats it with anger. He fights the grief. And hates himself for indulging such weak emotions in the first place.

"It won't matter how long it's been. You loved her. You feel guilty. But Sherlock, it's okay."

He looked over at her and furrowed his brows in a deep frown, "It's not ok, Irene. But it is what it is."

"I meant it's okay to feel all of that, Sherlock. There's no set time to get over it. Truth be told, with scars like this, you may feel a fraction of the grief forever. But do you know what you should do with it?"

Out of sheer hopeless curiosity, he muttered 'what?' as he laid back down on the bed, staring at nothing.

"You use it, Sherlock. You let it fuel you. Let that little piece of everlasting pain stay in your heart as a tribute to Mary. You will never quite get over it because you respected her, truly admired her. That little piece will hurt you, but every time you feel that sting in your soul, remember that she gave you her life so that you could continue doing great things in yours. You may not want to hear this, Sherlock, but being the wise woman she was, she knew your life was more important to the world than hers was…So make her proud. Or I'll punish you." A speech ended with a smirk and a sexual innuendo, how very her style.

A hollow laugh echoed out of his chest, "I've already told you that I don't know how to spend that currency."

"Bullshit, Sherl, you do it every day. With every case."

He turned his head to her in shock with a strange, almost concerned frown, "Did you just call me, Sherl?"

Her entire body tensed up, frozen with nerves. Why the hell would she give anyone a nickname, outside of work that is.

"I did," she responded, still ever so elegant, even flustered.

He must have been really drunk since all he did was resume his previous position of laying on his back and scoff, "You are not allowed near Mycroft ever again."

"Considering I am technically a criminal and he is the entire British government, I would say that's a smart assertion. But I wouldn't deign what I am and am not allowed to do if I were you."

"Oh, sod it all, woman," he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her back over his chest, "I cannot believe I am saying this, but weren't you asking about Eurus?"

"Your sister, yes," she settled back against his side, rubbing his neck with her thumb, just under his ear, in a manner that she knew greatly relaxed him, "I've heard she's locked up in an asylum."

"She's got an entire island all to herself, actually. Quite ritzy."

"Sherlock."

He huffed in resignation, tired, "Fine, I will explain. But you've only won this round because I'm tired and quite pissed."

She laughed softly in his ear, "I'm aware."

"I believe the worst of Eurus' terrors started when she drowned my childhood best friend. Then there was the setting our house on fire. Don't worry, no one was in it."

"No," she shook her head, irritated, "I know the background information. What is she like? What does she want?"

He paused, taking a moment to consider his answer, "She is….remarkable. And quite horrible. She is a genius, pains me to say, but a genius surpassing my own. But she is…lacking in ways that sane human beings are never. As intellectually advanced as she is, she is just as emotionally retarded. She does not understand feelings. Not in the way I used to pretend not to. When she was younger, I was told she couldn't distinguish the difference between pain or excitement. She wants to understand human emotion. She…studied us-John, Mycroft, and I. She put us through a wretched series of games to see how we would react when lives were on the line. But I think more than anything, she just wanted a friend. She never had a single friend as a child. She scared the other children. And when she asked me to shoot Mycroft, I understood why he had trained me to forget her. He made her into a fairytale in an old rhyme, 'the East Wind'. But, I suppose, that is why I never bothered much with sentiment. I had seen my sister try to figure it out and her ventures into feelings never ended well."

"Hmm…" an almost unreadable look came across the woman's eyes as she contemplated this phenomenon of a person, "And she scared you?"

"Well…" he faltered, a little unsure and a little too proud to admit it, "Yes. She is quite literally capable of brainwashing lesser men."

"I don't think that's why you were afraid…" she tilted her head to examine his expression, "She understands you. And I know for certain that you are not fond of being wholly understood."

He scowled and looked away from her, suddenly very uncomfortable for a reason he could not discern, wanting to climb out of his own skin, "I don't care if she knows my secrets."

"No," she agreed, "But you are not the same, you know? You are nothing like her."

"…I never said I was."

"You didn't say it. But I think that's why you're scared of her… Don't be."

He tried to restrain his glare at her tendency to be a know-it-all, "Irene, I hardly think you could know considering you never even met her."

Irene simply lifted one eyebrow in warning to not disrespect her before she continued on, "There's one striking difference between the two of you that could never allow you to be like her."

He paused and blinked, loathe to admit to himself that he wanted to know her thoughts on this subject. Truth be told, the fear that he could turn into someone as awful as his sister did weigh on his mind, "And that would be?" He tried to make his tone sound annoyed. He almost succeeded.

She grinned devilishly at him, "The heart of a pirate," she laughed, "You heal. She does not."

He closed his eyes, impatient with her theatrics, before he mumbled, "What is that supposed to mean, Irene?"

Contrasting his exasperation, she looked at him with complete seriousness, "You get hurt, you learn. You grow from it because there's a bravery to your heart. She gets hurt, she internalizes it until she combusts. Her heart is a bomb, ticking away."

He laid there silently for a few minutes, mediating on her dialogue. Her speeches and advice lean towards the dramatic side, but there's always blatant truth in her words. At least when she speaks to him like this. Outside of the bedroom, with other people, he knows her words are much more of a game than an honesty. She is contradictory and he has always been fascinated by enigmas.

"Hold on a second," he looked at her as he realized something, "There's no way you could speak about her like this if you didn't know her well….or of her….you already knew everything I just told you, didn't you?"

She let loose a very womanly chuckle, as if she knew more than he could ever understand, "Of course I did, but I figured it would be beneficial for you to say all of those things out loud to someone."

He quickly cut his eyes to her in a sharp glare as she rubbed her hand on his chest, over his heart. His gaze was cold and calculating. He was annoyed, but in the way a child becomes irritated for being told to eat his vegetables, not in an altogether serious manner.

She rolled her eyes good naturedly as she snuck her hand up into his hair, tugging his locks playfully between her fingers, "There is no scenario in which you'd get away with killing me at this moment. The good doctor is due home soon."

"Bollocks."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/n:** _Wow, this chapter is much longer than the first. C'est la vie. Please send in plot ideas if you guys have any bunnies jumping around in your head. I know the adlock fam is much smaller than some of my other fandoms, but I love you guys and I love writing for this fandom because we get so little on screen. I hope you all enjoy. I love writing Sherlock and Irene. Their banter is my favourite. All I've got say is…beware the East Wind._

 **Chapter 2:**

"You do realize, at one point, you will have to leave this room?"

One would assume that this question was directed at Irene by Sherlock, hoping to avoid his blogger seeing the Woman. Incorrect.

Irene was leaning in the doorway, attempting to repress the urge to put her hand on her hip and scold the man lazing in bed.

"That poses a rather brilliant existential question, my love-if I stay in this exact spot forever, and the furnishings around me change, am I still in my bedroom?"

Irene rolled her eyes starkly, pushing off the wall in frustration and stalking away to the kitchen. She couldn't help that her body portrayed her emotions with him sometimes. His presence had a way of stripping off her veneer without her noticing. It was rather irritating.

A few moments later, she heard the distinct sounds of his sluggish foot steps. She was too busy making herself a cup of coffee to bother to turn around and face him.

"I feel sorry for your mother," she remarked as she felt him enter the room, "You must have been a hellishly difficult child."

"Hmm, I feel sorry for you actually," he smirked, pausing a moment to simply watch the way her hands moved as she stirred the cream into her coffee.

"And why is that?" she finally turned to look at him, blinking twice as she tests her patience to indulge him just this once.

"Because," he chuckled, a deep timber, "I was a difficult child. And I still am," he finished, taking the mug of caffeine from her hands smoothly.

He sipped it in appreciation and held back the full smile that often wanted to break out on his face whenever he teased her, "Mmm. Quite good."

Her stare became icy and her eyes resembled those of a feline, hunting and planning its next move.

"Oh stop," he mumbled, handing her the mug back and giving a quick, amused snort as he walked to the refrigerator. He opened the door, looking around for the experiment he started the day before. _Where are those eyeballs?_

"Excuse me?" she bantered back, "Stop what?"

"The look on your face," he gestured vaguely to her expression, not bothering to actually look at her.

"The annoyed look? I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that may stay on my face for the majority of the time we spend together, darling."

He grimaced at the pet name and leaned against the counter, nibbling on the biscuit he'd gotten out of the fridge John kept telling him that biscuits go in the cupboard, but he liked them better cold.

"No-the murder-plotting look. As you stated previously, you can't kill me and hide the evidence before John gets here."

She scoffs, "Please, I don't have a-"

"It's the same look you get whenever I stop moving right before you orgasm or if I wake you up before your alarm goes off. When I leave a plate out on the table after dinner-that look," he points at her face, matter of fact, "And when you find one of my experiments on top of your bag, I can tell the murder would be quite creative. Call it what you will, but I know what you're thinking when that look is on your face-you're imaging creative ways to maim me."

"Hmm. He's learning," she cooed and carefully pressed her body close up against his, loving to feel how his heartbeat sped up as he squirmed. She smiled up at him, fake sweetness and eyelashes, as she slid her hand expertly up the collar of his robe. His eyes flickered down to follow the movement of her hand, for once, unaware of his actions.

"However…." She breathed softly, her face tilting up towards his.

"However…?" his gaze is trapped on her lips now, smeared lipstick still there from the night previous and he wondered if she has left the same mark on him. Most likely.

She deftly grabbed the biscuit out of his hand and stepped back from his body, leaving him cold. She hopped up to sit on the kitchen table behind him and grinned. It is the only time Sherlock could remember having ever seen her resemble a child and a mischievous one at that.

"However, I'm the master."

His expression automatically fell into Pout Number Three, as she liked to call it. Or 'the one where Irene beats me and I don't get to feel like the cool one.'

She forces herself not to admit that the frown looks a little bit charming on his daft face as he mutters, "Biscuit thief, more like."

He grumbled slightly as he pulled up a chair at the island and sat next to her, picking up the newspaper whose origin of appearance had had no idea of. He hadn't picked one up yesterday and he didn't remember seeing Irene with one. Quite a small, unimportant detail, but it perturbed him; he hated not noticing things. She distracted him.

"Sherlock!" the two strange creatures inhabiting the flat heard a voice call out as marked, familiar footsteps approached, "You better still be in here of sound mind or I'll be having a talk with Greg to get guards at this door," John Watson walked into the flat quite casually, like he was still living there, and hung his coat on the rack. His back was towards them so he had yet to glimpse the woman, sitting on the kitchen table in his best friend's dress shirt.

Sherlock smiled ever so slightly, the tiniest bit amused, and nodded at Irene. It was a silent gesture for her to hide. It wasn't as if he didn't want his trusted friend to know that he…kept in contact, so to speak, with the Woman. But he had an idea in mind.

Sherlock didn't say a word, but Irene knew that he wanted to play a game on his blogger. Their similar world-view lends the couple several advantages; the gift of silent, efficient communication is probably the most useful.

Before the good doctor could even turn around, Irene had slipped from the kitchen to hide in the bathroom alongside. She briefly wondered what Sherlock was playing at and how long it would take John to notice her signature Louboutin heels on the floor by Sherlock's chair.

"Oh calm down, John. I'm perfectly capable of caring for myself. You lot seem to forget, but I am not actually an infant."

John fixes his friend with a potent glare, "No, actually-my infant is easier to watch after. At least she doesn't shoot up heroine when she's upset."

Sherlock held back the first acrid thought that came to his bitter mind- 'that you know of' probably wasn't the best joke to tell a man about his daughter soon after his wife had died.

Instead, he lightly rolled his eyes and went to sit down in his chair in the living room, still reading the paper, "It was cocaine this time, actually."

John walked further into the flat and heaved a sigh, nodding, "Of course it was. You don't-"

"No, Watson. I don't still have any; Lestrade made sure to confiscate every last piece of contraband I own. Well, of the drug variety."

John frowned slightly in response, wondering about that last remark for a split second before he cut his thought process off, "Nope. Don't need to know the particulars. Don't live here anymore. And I am not your babysitter, Sherlock."

"Could've fooled me."

The shorter man paused, a little thrown by the change in his friend's attitude. He seemed…less down than the night before. His tone was distinctly less pained than yesterday. Almost playful. When john looked at his eyes, he could tell the pain and guilt were still there. But there was something else.

"Are you…high right now? Or perhaps a little drunk…"

"Wha-" Sherlock scoffed and put the paper down dramatically, "I just told you that I don't have any drugs in the flat. I know you're not dumb, John, so maybe you're going deaf?"

A comment that should have stung simply bounced off John's jacket; he was too used to Sherlock's verbal antics and deflections.

"No, you just seem…." He scanned the room for clues- something he learned from the man he was currently analysing- and his eyes fell on a distinctive pair of high heels with red bottoms, "distracted….better, maybe. Than yesterday."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed neutrally, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, as he watched John's eyes to see the gears grind in his head, "Well I am certainly not high, unfortunately. I can assure you that."

The room is dead silent for a minute before the sound of Sherlock groan of pleasure cut through the air. Which was quite confusing for John considering Sherlock's mouth had not opened or moved. The man looked rather bored, really.

"Sherlock?" John raised an eyebrow in a slightly disturbed, confused expression, "Was that-"

He sighed as he hears a woman's voice cursing quietly from the hall, "No…well, not live," he rolled his eyes as Irene walked out from the bathroom and came to stand behind him, "It was Irene's text-tone," he sensed her behind him and turned slightly to give her a brief, annoyed stare, "I still don't understand how you recorded that without my knowing. Or _why_."

Irene Adler laughed softly to herself in a way a woman does when a man asks a very dumb question. She moved to position herself in front of the chair, sitting on the arm of it and draping her legs across Sherlock's lap. She smiled briefly at John, enjoying his bewilderment.

"Do use that beautiful brain, Sherl. You know you don't notice much when I'm getting you to make those sounds."

Sherlock's eyes flare at her in annoyance as John's widen in shock.

"Irene…" John says her name, almost to himself, as he stares at her and tries to ascertain if she's real or not, "I knew you weren't dead, but-" he blinks, stopping as something suddenly catches up with him, "Hold on, did she just call you, Sherl?"

Sherlock sighed in exasperation-he had hoped his friend wouldn't notice that part- and reluctantly bit out, "Apparently, it's her new method of torture. I'm trying to get her to stop."

"Right," he nodded to himself continually, too shocked to process all of his thoughts, "Okay….." he stared at the previously dead woman lounging on the detective's lap and can't seem to accept the visual in front of him. This was worse than the time Sherlock had pretended to date what's her name, "Why is she sitting on your lap? There is another chair."

"She," Irene suddenly spoke up, with a slight spike to her voice, "is sitting right here and can speak for herself, Dr. Watson. I'm in this chair because the other one is yours. Obviously."

John froze, taken aback at the respect that she had automatically showed him, "Oh…but I'm not using it."

"No, but you always come back to that chair. And argue with Sherlock. He needs that. If I sit there, I might eventually get in the way."

Sherlock looked out the window and shoved the smirk he waned to let out back down into his pocket, "Plus it is easier for her to manhandle me this way."

"Hush, you love how I handle you."

Sherlock did not blush. He does not blush. Ever.

He may have blushed, "Woman…" he pinched the bridge of his nose, impatient with her, "Would you please refrain?"

"Of course," she stood up gracefully and leaned over to kiss his lips- a short, surprisingly loving touch, "I have to go shortly, anyway. Business to attend to."

She headed to his room to get changed, but not before giving one last sharp remark, "The cinnamon roll in the fridge is mine and if you eat it while I'm gone, I will bake your microscope in the oven until it's just as gooey"

"Noted."

* * *

The two men sat in silence in the small, shabby living room. One casually flipped through the newspaper, pretending to be interested in it to avoid the other man's gaze. The other man, for his part, waited until the woman had shut the door of the bedroom before he exploded on his friend.

"Sherlock!" he almost shouted, sputtering, "I can't believe…actually I can," he took a deep breath and shook his head, calming himself down. "Explain," he demanded.

"What exactly do you want me to tell you? I thought the situation was self-explanatory." Sherlock was genuinely confused.

"Don't give me that! Until the other day, I thought she was dead! Then I have to piece together by myself that you saved her. And now she shows up in the flat. I knew you kept in touch with her occasionally, but…she's wearing your _shirt_ Sherlock and I know what that means."

"I don't think you do-"

"I'm a grown man. I know how sex works."

Sherlock held his tongue in his cheek for a second before explaining, "She's not wearing it because of some sexy cliché. I ripped her dress. She has nothing else to wear."

"Oh."

"Yes," he nodded, pretending not to be proud of himself for that.

"That still explains nothing!" he snapped, "I'm your friend, Sherlock….this sort of stuff-major life stuff…well, I kind of thought you would tell me about it."

He wanted to tell him not to be a girl about this, but he could sense that that would be indelicate at the moment. As Irene said, he was learning; his emotional intelligence was growing.

Sherlock groaned, unsure of how to be proceed, and feeling a slight stab of guilt. He had already caused John too much pain, "John…you are my only friend. Really," he shrugs, "And I wasn't hiding her. It's not as if I don't trust you."

"Then why did I have no idea?"

He broke, "Because I don't know how to do it, John! It wasn't a plan. I didn't come up with an elaborate secret and purposely keep it from everyone. I just didn't talk about it…about her. Because I don't know how to. Not knowing makes me uncomfortable, you know that. So I avoid the topic. Until she shows up."

John nodded in understanding. Sherlock really wasn't as complicated of a man as he would have liked everyone to think. He was a brilliant mind guided by the soul of a confused child that only ever wanted adventures. Interpersonal relationships were not his forte. Most children learned to navigate their way through relationships, romantic or otherwise, as they grew up and became adults. Sherlock skipped that stage. He went straight from child to adult; the empathy, the stage that links childhood to adulthood, was thrown out in his upbringing. And the reason for that dismissal of empathy was erased, replaced by a macabre nursery rhyme.

"So…" John leaned forward, elbows on his knees, ready to listen, "Why did she show up?"

Sherlock didn't answer, glancing to his phone before he could control the impulse.

"Ah," John smiled, proud that Sherlock had taken his advice, "You texted her."

"Yes," Sherlock assented, "…We talked about cake."

John threw a disbelieving quirked brow at his former flat mate, "Is that all you talked about?"

Sherlock did not move. His body stayed still as his mind whirled, debating how much to tell John. It is still a sensitive subject for them both.

"No," he hesitated before continuing, "Of course not."

"Then what-"

Sherlock ran a hand over his face, rubbing his forehead in distress, "Mary. We talked about Mary."

John's eyes widened for a second, a little worried that Sherlock was sharing such personal details to a woman that was technically a criminal.

Sherlock shookhis head, reading the thought off of John's face, "I didn't tell her. She already knew. I just…elaborated. On my part of the story."

"There's still something I don't understand, though. Why? Why did you message her in the first place? I thought you didn't text her back."

Sherlock chuckled at his friend's see-through lie, "No, you didn't. You didn't believe me when I said that."

John smiled, happy to see his friend more at ease now than he had been the last couple of weeks, "No, I didn't. You're not as good a liar as you think."

"I know," he said, "I…wanted to talk to someone that I didn't have to explain things to."

John frowned again, offended just a tad, "Just because I'm not as intelligent as you, doesn't mean I wouldn't understand what you were feeling."

"No!" he explained, "I didn't mean it like….I'm honestly not sure how to explain this, but Irene knows what I'm thinking. You know I don't like to voice my feelings out loud. Especially the really difficult ones. If I talk to her about everything, I don't have to say what's bothering me. I deflect her questions too, when she probes too deep, but she reads between the lines of my words and…she knows what I'm refusing to say."

The way John was looking at him at that moment made Sherlock want to take back everything he just said and throw himself into a black hole. Why does everyone have to look at him like that green Christmas monster that grew a heart whenever he talks about what he feels? It's not a conducive reaction if they're trying to get him to open up more often.

John looked at Sherlock like he finally realized his friend was capable of real human emotion. And, admittedly, it made John feel good that there was finally something he knew more about than Sherlock.

"So you wanted to talk to her so you could feel like someone was sympathizing with you, without having to do any work?"

Sherlock glanced down at the paper again, supremely uncomfortable and uninterested in the daily news, "I guess it was just easier," he said, "She understood. Didn't think I was crazy, or going soft. And it helps that she doesn't look at me like a baby learning to speak when I announce that I ,in fact, do have emotions."

John felt a little bit bad for that part, so he gave in, "Fair point."

* * *

The restaurant she was supposed to meet her next client at was filled with pretension. The overly ornate curtains covering the glass windows had fleur de lis carefully stitched onto them. The hand folded napkin at each place setting was an origami swan. The entire décor screamed for attention, but Irene was not intimidated. She knew how to make herself appear as if she belonged anywhere. She was the ultimate chameleon and her sleek dark blue dress was all the camouflage she would need today.

For the man she was meeting, however, she could not say the same. As she walked in, she saw him sat at one of the front tables by himself. He was meeting the dress code of the restaurant, yes. But only technically. His sport coat was a size too small-obviously borrowed from a much fitter man whom could afford fancy dress. His face was freshly shaven, but littered with tiny razor nicks, as if he didn't groom himself often enough to know how to do so properly. The little hair he had was combed over into the only decent style he knew. As much as she hated crediting Sherlock's ego, she had to admit that spending time around him seemed to have given her powers of observations a tune up.

The man did not fit in in this place, but he was trying hard to disguise himself. That fact put Irene off just a little bit. Usually, if a client is…underkept, they don't ask to meet in a place like this, knowing they wouldn't blend in. But she sat down across from the man regardless.

"Your associate said you had some information I might find useful…" she let her red-painted lips naturally curve into the sinister smirk that never failed to ensnare every one of her clients.

He swallowed and used the pristine napkin to wipe the slight sweat that had accumulated off his forehead. Nerves. _Why is he so scared?_ She wondered as she slightly narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

"Yes," he managed to stutter out, eyes darting from side to side once, checking if he was being watched? "And I will tell you, I swear. But I believe my associate mentioned something about your methods of compensation?"

She rolled her eyes elegantly, picking up the menu to scan it for her favourite cocktail-dealing with this man may require booze, "Recreational scolding. The rough stuff," she flicked her eyes back up from the menu to meet his in order to gauge his reaction, "If I deem the information you give me to be valuable, then I will pay for it."

"Wait, you mean…if I tell you first, right here, then you will…punish me?"

She sighed and nodded nonchalantly, bored, "Yes. But only if the information is worth it."

"No!" he frowned at her, fear in his eyes, "I want a guarantee that I will be paid. This information…it isn't safe for me to be giving."

"Not safe for you or not safe for me?" she lifted an eyebrow curiously.

The man suddenly became serious and a cold look came into his eyes, as if a chill had invaded his bones, "Not safe for either of us."

"Oh, I'm intrigued," she grinned, refusing to allow this man's fear to rub off on her, "Do explain, sir."

"Guarantee my payment. I guarantee you it's worth it…if you value your life."

In Irene's line of work, threats to her life were not uncommon. She refrained from another eyeroll, "Of course I do. But how can I be sure that you aren't simply pulling my leg?"

"I know who you are, Ms. Adler. You're supposed to be able to tell when a man is lying to you. That's what they say, at least. Look at my face, look in my eyes….I'm not faking."

Irene paused, briefly admiring the hit at her ego as an attempt to persuade her. She examined the man's expression, the thoughts behind his eyes, and something there shook her a little, "You really are scared…But, of who?"

Most people would ask 'Of what?', but it's quite obvious what he is afraid of-whoever he got this information from will kill him if he relays it to her. Ergo….who?

"Someone that is very interested in you, that you better pray you never meet."

"Is that all you can give me?" She pretended to not be affected, as was her method.

"I can tell you that the man I got this information from checked himself into an asylum the next day, muttering 'Don't let her in.'"

"So it's a woman that's in control, huh? Refreshing," she quipped, looking the man up and down for a second, "And what is this information you're lording over me?"

The man's face went pale, all life drained away as he looked towards the door for a second then back at her, "Leave England. She's after you. The man I spoke of…he gave me this, stole it from one of her guards."

As he handed over an old crumpled note, she frowned in interest, "She has body guards?"

"No…cell guards. My informant worked as a janitor at her prison."

She took the note from him carefully, a dubious expression etched onto her face, "She's coming to get me…from jail?"

"Oh yes, Miss. Read the note."

The woman looked down at the faded piece of parchment in her hands as was barely able to discern 'Irene Adler-221 B Baker Street.'

The man nodded at the aghast look that came over her face; Irene hid it well, but the fact that this crazy woman knew she would be at Sherlock's place worried her, "She was scribbling that over and over again on the walls of her cell."

"But this isn't even the current address of my hotel in London."

"No," the man smiled, darkly amused despite himself, "But it's where you were last, isn't it?"

A silence fell across the table as Irene considered this pathetic, little man, and whether to trust his story. When she got up from the table, she still hadn't decided, "This meeting is over. Consider my payment nullified."

She drowned out the man's indignant complaining as she walked out of the restaurant, her heart beating in her ears.

* * *

She honestly wasn't going to concern Sherlock with this worry. She could take care of it herself; this type of thing has happened to her before. And she certainly wasn't running from London because of a sad, horny man's anonymous tip.

But she had gone back to 221 B, as the note had predicted she would. Her desire to be unpredictable lost to her stubbornness to admit she was afraid. She was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea when she received a text from an unknown number and dropped the cup to the floor, the pieces shattering as her skin went icy.

 **Contact:** Unknown, received 2:05 p.m:

 _As the east wind blows to beautiful Calypso_

 _So approaches his test_

 _The sea has grown treacherous, the waves don't love him_

 _They will give him no rest_

 _When the waters turn against, his body fully spent_

 _He might give up his quest_

 _If I wreck his ship and he still doesn't quit_

 _Should I take the pirate's treasure from his chest?_

 _His spoils mean nothing, his gold is rusted_

 _These things hold no value for this man_

 _But if I wreck the siren, calling to be trusted,_

 _He will swim where no one can_

 _After all, If you take a man's heart from his breast,_

 _Really, truly, what will be left?_

 _-Much love._

"Eurus…" she said the name on an exhale of breath, feeling like a ghost had entered the room and was now watching her. She had been begrudgingly worried before; no matter how used to danger you are, it's still a little concerning. But now…

Normally once she figured out who was after her, the process became easier, but not this time. This time, knowing only terrified her. Her sources had informed her about Sherlock's sister before, obviously. She was not someone to challenge. She had to admit, from what she had heard, Eurus was smarter than her. Smarter than Sherlock. And Irene had learned a long time ago to never challenge someone smarter than yourself. Muscles really didn't intimidate her; they weren't the biggest sign that a person was dangerous. The weakest, scrawniest person could burn down the entire world if they knew how. And Eurus, despite being locked up on her own personal island, had managed to make men oceans away tremble with fear. Sherlock told her that her guards' time in her cell was always carefully monitored because she could essentially brainwash people into doing whatever she wanted.

Sherlock's head ticked up immediately when Irene muttered the name. He took in the broken tea cup on the floor and the fear on her face as she stared at her phone. From that, it took his mind less than two seconds to realize that Irene was looking at a message from his sister. Or rather, a threat.

"Show me the phone." His voice was modulated and in control. It was a tone that says 'don't argue'. Usually, his demanding anything of her would not end pleasantly for him. But Irene was in a state where all she could do was lift her arm and hold the phone out for him to take as she thought about the message, replalying it in her head.

He took the device from her, keeping the hand he took it from in his larger one, squeezing her fingers. He may not be good at vocalizing feelings, but he can express himself very well physically.

He quickly read over the text and the old lyrics that Mycroft used to sing to him, out of key, floated into his head, _I that am lost, oh who will find me? Deep down below the old beach tree…_

Sherlock's mind jumped back to the first time he had learned what terror felt like. A picture of Redbeard flashed through his mind, first the imaginary dog, then the little boy he had lost. For a minute, he was a curly-headed child in the long grass, running to save his best friend. He remembered how the cold wind whipped his nose until it was red, how the air smelled faintly of honeysuckles from his mother's garden. But all he could taste was the bitter tang of dread as saliva gathered in his mouth. That was when he learned that fear had a taste.

He remembered looking down into the well and seeing the last light of the day reflecting against the top of the water. His friend's tricorn hat floated to the surface, soggy and tired. He picked it up and sat by that well, staring at the sun going down.

Mycroft had found him still sitting there the next day, barefoot and shivering, and refusing to speak. His eyes were empty. He supposed that was why Mycroft decided to make him forget the event. And her. He had to fill his eyes again; he couldn't grow up knowing what had happened. Mycroft knew that his little brother wouldn't have been able to live with it.

 _Never again. She will not destroy someone I love again._

He came back from his reverie and felt something squeezing his heart, "Irene…"

The way he said her name, with such sincerity, broke through her shock and caused her to meet his gaze, "Sherlock."

His voice was steel as he vowed to her, and himself. "She will not take you from me."


End file.
